


The Priest

by Prinzenhasserin



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-25 17:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12537144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prinzenhasserin/pseuds/Prinzenhasserin
Summary: The gods of Camorra have to spend one day each year with their mortal worshippers. It is a point of contention, because the nameless thirteenth does not.





	The Priest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DachOsmin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/gifts).



"And when will you grace mankind with your presence?" Nara, the Lady of Ubiquitous Maladies, asked with the smiling face of a pest doctor. It was not that she was not beautiful, it was that her face perpetually appeared to be shrouded with the same kind of mask her priests wore, tending to the dying and barely alive. She was clearly annoyed, when she addressed the nameless thirteenth who was hanging around like the pretentious hanger-on that he was.

"Don’t you worry about him, my dear," Aza Guilla said, "We will have fun of our own." And with a possessive hand, she brushed gently over the beak of Nara’s nose. The Lady of the Long Silence rarely spoke, but when she did, it was to her favourites. She didn't even look towards the nameless thirteenth, who took the opportunity to steal another morsel of Perelandro's altar.

"I am not contracted to age-old agreements," the nameless thirteenth said, very very placidly. The other gods bristled, forever resentful that the nameless thirteenth had escaped their fate — through trickery and tricks, and was now free to leave and come back however he pleased, beholden to none other than himself. Unlike the Twelve Gods, he wasn't bound by worshippers. He was kept in balance even so— he was nameless, and therefore couldn't amass the same cult following to concentrate his powers as his fellow gods had. An age old quandary of his; which was more important, power or freedom?

"And even if you were, you would not feel beholden to them," Nara said, accusation in her tone.

The nameless thirteenth said nothing, did nothing, held his face blank. It would not do to get into a fight right now, not now, when her power was greatest. People kept dying of the plague. "There is one thing I want to do, though. May I accompany you to the mortals, my eternal goddess?"

"I don’t know," Nara said slowly. "I don’t like being laughed at."

The Crooked Warden slowly hiked up a single eyebrow. "Who dared laugh at you, milady?"

The Lady of Death, Aza Guilla, had a scythe at his throat before anyone could blink. "How dare you," she hissed. "You have no right—you were not there, when the contracts were put in place." The Crooked Warden had _purposefully_ not been there, when the Twelve had contracted themselves to the humans. Sometimes, they seemed to realize that. Other times, they seemed very sure of their own, greater power.

"Apologies, I didn’t mean to bring up sore wounds," he said, and it sounded sincere. It felt sincere, it looked sincere, and yet everyone present was sure it was not.

Aza Guilla sheathed her scythe with obvious reluctance.

"I do wonder," the nameless thirteenth continued after a pregnant pause. "Why you repeatedly dismiss your only chance at getting even, why you dismiss someone who has power outside the contracts, unlike you."

Nara, patron of plagues and maladies started laughing. "And what will you do, Crooked Warden? What will you do, with your paltry followers, who only pray with each coin they manage to steal? What will you do as a god with a single sightless priest who masquerades as someone else’s entirely?"

The Crooked Warden didn't mind his priest being disparaged so. In fact, most of the paltry followers he had, had been won through Perelandro's mercy in not striking down his priest when he could. "I will go down with you to Camorr," he said. "Today, in fact. And I will find you my priest, who will steal the gods from their prison. But you may not touch him, before I induct him in my service."

Nara’s laughter went on, longer than was polite, but that was not usually an attribute prescribed to her anyway. There was no secret to how much she did not think he would find a suitable human to fulfil this grand plan. "Fine," she said. "Let’s find your priest." And so she had agreed, and so it was binding.

 

That day, Locke Lamorra would be found in Camorr, and the Lady Nara would not touch him. His story was only beginning .


End file.
